


The Responsible One

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Established Relationship, Fear, Forbidden Love, Gossip and Innuendo, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV John Watson, True Love, Victorian Attitudes, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21604201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: "We can’t ignore this, Sherlock.”He drew his feet up onto the chair, hugging his knees and looking unhappy.“We must take this seriously,” I said. “Before things turn on us.”“No,” he said. “This will all blow over soon enough. The amendment was passed just a few months ago, and once the courts are clogged with spurious cases, it will die down.”I let it drop then, but this could not be the end of our discussion. I know my Sherlock, and when he takes a position on an issue, arguing only makes him more stubborn. I needed to reason with him, and he wasn’t ready to hear that.And I knew that it would have to be me.A conversation, a case, and an overheard remark overturned our comfortable existence.Summary: After the Labouchere Amendment is passed, Holmes and Watson begin to fear that their relationship will put them in danger. Mycroft has a suggestion.This is the second part of a Victorian AU series. There is an overall arc to the stories, but each story can be read independently.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 12
Kudos: 71





	The Responsible One

When my father died, my brother Harry told me, “You’ll have to take care of things now.”

“You’re the elder,” I protested. “He’d want you to manage his estate.”

He shook his head, grinning. “And you’re the responsible one.”

Relatively speaking, this was true. I did well in school, whereas Harry had always brought home low marks. Academics was his stumbling block, but he had other gifts: enthusiasm, energy, and charm.

This was why I’d been the one to go on to university. Father had decided that medicine was a respectable career choice and loaned me money to start my first year. Harry, a year older, was happy to be done with school and went to work in a shop. Father had hopes that he would eventually have his own business, since he seemed to have a way with people. On his death, he left Harry a sum of money that he might use to invest in some enterprise. My portion of the estate went towards medical school. 

Our mother died soon after, and the bulk of the money was ours. Our father had worked at a bank and, while he ran our household under frugal principles, he’d invested wisely and left us a tidy inheritance. Not a fortune, but managed well, it might set us up for comfortable and secure lives.

Since Harry seemed to have inherited his gift for financial canniness, while I tended to spend every coin I had in hand, I let him manage the estate. I focused on my studies, which left me hardly any time for spending money. And yet, within a year, I had to approach him for a loan.

“Books,” I said. “Clothing, boots. And my landlord’s raised the rent. I’ll need money next semester. Just one more year and I’ll be able to pay you back.”

“It’s gone, Johnny.” Harry was never a dissembler; he had the courage to look me in the eye. “I thought I’d spotted a good investment. Railroads. They’re laying tracks to every corner of the island— why wouldn’t it be a goldmine?” He shook his head ruefully.

I gaped at him, thinking of the pile of money Father had left us. Enough money to last us a lifetime, I’d thought. “What happened?”

“The balance sheets were fake. Not one foot of track was laid. They’re trying to prosecute the bastard, but that’ll take time, and the lawyers will take their spoils first. We’ll be lucky to recover a fraction of what we lost. I’m sorry, Johnny.”

And I saw the truth: neither of us was the responsible one. It was a good thing that our father hadn’t lived to see us lose what he’d spent decades saving. It would have killed him.

Though I’d gone into medicine because my father had thought it respectable enough, and my character seemed more suited for doctoring than business, I’d had other dreams— travel, adventure, exploring the world. My father might have discouraged me, considering the risks higher than the reward, but this seemed like a good time to indulge my thirst for danger. To fund my last year of studies, I enlisted in Her Majesty’s Army as a surgeon.

Harry died while I was in Afghanistan fighting murderous Ghazis. He left no wife, no children, no assets. All I have left of him is our father’s watch. I remember handing it to Holmes, listening as he narrated the sad history of my brother’s life— the financial losses, the trips to the pawn shop to cover his bills, the drinking that eventually claimed him.

I do not blame my brother for what he became. I relate this merely to make it clear that I was never the responsible one. If I were, I would not have let him die believing he was a failure.

I returned to England without kith or kin, my health irretrievably ruined. Spending such monies as I had, I lived a life without meaning or comfort. It wasn’t long before my brother’s obligations and my own expenses were compounded by some gambling debts, and I was forced to borrow money.

At this point I became rather desperate. I had moved from the hotel I’d occupied in my first days home, and my current lodgings were about as cheap as could be found in London. On eleven shillings and sixpence a day, I was skipping meals I badly needed for my recuperation, drinking to forget my troubles, and pawning every thing I owned that might bring in a bit of cash.

My injuries had ended my career, I thought. I would not be able to practice surgery with a trembling hand, the result of nerve damage to my shoulder. I might have done locum work, covering for other physicians, or applied to one of the poor hospitals, but the enteric fever that had almost killed me had left me too ill to do much of anything. Many days I was too weak to get out of bed. I was broke, and broken as well.

A happy fate brought me to Holmes. He gave me a home, where I was healed in mind and body. He carried me over what had been the worst patch in my life up to that point, paying my portion of the rent when I could not, giving me a purpose as I followed him on cases. He gave me himself, the best and wisest man I have ever known. I love him as I have never loved another person.

The details of our meeting are as I related them in A Study in Scarlet, my written account of the first case we solved together. This was published in Beeton’s Annual, and gained Holmes some fame. In my own way, I felt pleased to be able to return even a small part to him of what he had given me. Obviously, though, there are aspects of our relationship that I can never publish.

For several years we lived as respectable gentlemen in our rooms on Baker Street. Mrs Hudson took care of us, treating us like grown sons living a bohemian existence, in need of someone to make sure they eat, sleep, and don’t live in filth.

A conversation, a case, and an overheard remark overturned our comfortable existence.

Mycroft had stopped over to Baker Street, an unusual occurrence. He’d been moderating his habits, eating fewer confections and walking more, and was looking healthier than I’d seen him since we’d first met. He climbed the stairs with some difficulty, a feat that I could not have imagined him accomplishing at his former weight.

“What brings you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, looking wary.

Mycroft smiled. “Can I not visit my own brother and his friend without suspicions?” he asked, nodding at me. “I am trying to take more exercise, you see, and calling on you kills two birds with one stone.”

My partner frowned. “What is the other bird?”

“Tea,” I suggested. “Please have a seat whilst I ready things.” I escaped into the kitchen, put on the kettle and found a plate for the biscuits Mrs Hudson had made for us. From the sitting room, I heard only silence.

When I returned with the tea and a plate of biscuits, the brothers were staring one another down, Sherlock glowering and Mycroft sneering a bit. They pretended not to like one another, but I have seen real affection there, and the glowering-sneering-staring-down was merely a pretence designed to preserve the illusion of dislike.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “I’ll forgo the biscuits this time.” He added a teaspoon of sugar to his cup.

“Well?” Sherlock said. “Clearly what you have to share concerns Watson as well as me, so you might as well get to the point. Then we can all get on with our day.”

Mycroft smiled at me. “My brother has never been known for his manners. He considers courtesy an evasive manoeuvre. A reasonable viewpoint for a detective to hold, where truth must sometimes be prised from the jaws of civility. I, however, work in a field where truth must be dug from the voluble verbiage of the law, which requires more patience.”

I knew that Mycroft held a position in the government, but in what particular branch was a mystery to me. He was a repository of secrets, sometimes consulted for his arcane knowledge of legislative history, and knew what went on in every committee and sub-committee. The confidant of many powerful men, his name was known to few outside of inner circles. I had heard Sherlock remark that he _was_ the British Government in some respects.

Smiling, I inclined my head. “If you need to talk to your brother alone, I can—”

“No, Doctor. Sherlock is correct. This concerns you both.” He held up his cup. “And will require more tea.”

Once I had poured him a second cup, and he had added sugar (two teaspoons this time), he took a sip, made a harrumphing sound, and set his cup in its saucer.

Sherlock was vibrating with impatience, but remained quiet.

“You may be aware of the Criminal Law Amendment Act currently under consideration.”

I was not, and looked to Sherlock for clarification. He did not speak.

“It has to do with the age of consent,” Mycroft said. “Fears that young girls are being bought on the street. A kind of moral panic started when a journalist wrote a series of articles, exposing the prevalence of child prostitution, suppressing brothels, etc, etc. This act is meant to answer that fear, set limits and make offences more easily prosecuted.”

I nodded. As a doctor, I had seen abused children and found it horrifying.

“I would consider that a good thing,” Sherlock said. “Thirteen is hardly the age when a girl ought to consider motherhood, and since we deny women the means to prevent pregnancy it seems reasonable to lessen the chances of that happening.”

“There’s been an addition to the Amendment,” Mycroft continued. “Section eleven, proposed by Henry Labouchere. If you will allow me, this is how it currently reads.” He recited from memory:

_“Any male person who, in public or private, commits, or is a party to the commission of, or procures, or attempts to procure the commission by any male person of, any act of gross indecency with an other male person, shall be guilty of a misdemeanour, and being convicted thereof, shall be liable at the discretion of the Court to be imprisoned for any term not exceeding two years, with or without hard labour.”_

He raised his cup to his mouth. “Do you see the problem?”

“ _Gross indecency_?” I said. “How is that defined, exactly?”

“It isn’t.”

“Who is this Labouchere?”

“A member of parliament. Also a journalist, specialising in moral outrage. An opponent of women’s rights, an anti-semite, a despiser of sodomites.”

I gaped. “But the law has never pursued men who…”

“… bugger each other,” finished Sherlock. “The difficulty of proving it is the rub, so to speak.” He smiled bitterly. “But proving _gross indecency_ will be much easier, because it can mean whatever they say it means.”

“Public or private,” Mycroft added.

I tried to imagine the consequent enforcement of such a law. It would open men like us to suspicion, to slander, to persecution. For years, sodomy had been illegal, punishable by death when it could be proved, which was difficult, but other types of sexual activity were tolerated, though not approved of. If the purpose of the law was to protect women and children, what did that have to do with men who loved other men?

“But why?” I asked. “How can it possibly be enforced?”

The elder Holmes shook his head. “No one knows. We don’t even know at this time whether it will pass. A colleague suggested to me that it was proposed as a poison pill for the entire amendment, that no one will vote for a law full of such vague and unenforceable language. I am not so sure. The pendulum has already begun to swing. Whatever liberality we have seen is giving way to moral outrage and the cry for values.”

“You are warning us,” I said, glancing over at my partner, who had leaned back and closed his eyes in an attitude of contemplation. Or prayer, perhaps.

“It may pass,” Mycroft said lightly. “If it does, you’d best be prepared. The two of you are becoming rather well-known, but you work in a field where you may acquire enemies as well as admirers.”

“I hardly think we need to worry about what criminals say,” I said.

He sighed and put his hands on his knees, signalling that he was preparing to go. “It is not the criminals about whom I am warning you.”

“Scotland Yard,” said Sherlock.

“You may wish to exercise a bit more courtesy in your dealings with policemen, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, standing and looking around the room. “Don’t humiliate them. And be careful what clues you leave lying about. I know that Lestrade is a frequent visitor here, and though you consider him the best of an inferior lot, he is not so dull as you think, nor is he a person to belittle. Do not turn him into an enemy. One day you may need his defence.”

“Defence?” I said, rising to my feet as well. “But what can we do before it comes to that?” I did not know what to think; it was too monumental.

“There is a simple remedy,” Mycroft said. He paused on the threshold, looking at us both. “One of you might marry.”

“Marry? But—”

Sherlock interrupted me. “No.”

Mycroft regarded his brother with sympathy. “Well, think on it. People marry for a variety of reasons. Matrimony is generally not about love.”

“We will not consider it,” Sherlock said. “Goodbye, Mycroft.” As he did not seem inclined to move from his position in his chair, I walked his brother down to the door.

“Do you really believe…” I began quietly.

He held up a hand. “Thank you for the tea, Doctor. I think the summer will continue cooler than usual, do you not?”

We said our farewells and I trudged up the stairs to our flat, wondering how worried we ought to be. On the threshold I stood, regarding my partner. “He is afraid for us.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. “I am not worried. We are two bachelors, it is true. But many men share rooms. You are a respectable doctor, and I am, well— I suppose I’m considered eccentric. But there is no whiff of scandal about me.” He smiled up at me. “Have no fear, my dear. We will continue as we have, taking care not to raise suspicions.”

“What about Mrs Hudson? Does she not suspect? We sleep in the same bed, as she well knows. She does our laundry, for heaven’s sake.”

“Don’t worry about her. She may be an Anglican, but she considers us as sons. And before I knew you, I did her a favour she hasn’t forgotten, one involving a scandal of her own. She will not betray us.”

He stood and gathered me in his arms. I wrapped mine around him, feeling his heart beating against mine. “Sherlock,” I whispered. My mind was so unsettled that I could not frame a single thought. I had never felt a fear like this, not even on the battlefield at Maiwand. It was an amorphous dread, an enemy I could only glimpse through the fog. I felt its eyes on us, judging, heard whispered voices saying our names. A shudder ran through me.

“You are mine, love,” he said quietly, raising my face to look into his. “Don’t worry, John. I will not turn you over to some woman. Nor will I abandon you. We will weather this storm together.”

The amendment passed. It soon became known as the “Blackmailer’s Charter,” on account of the vague wording, permitting any hint of _indecent_ activity between males to be pursued, the word _indecent_ apparently being defined by whatever fear the public was most fixated upon.

We continued on, as Sherlock had said we would, working on cases, eating publicly at restaurants, walking together in the neighbourhood. He was perhaps a bit more willing to let Lestrade take the credit for his solutions, and less inclined to jibe at him. We took the air together, but did not walk quite as close to one another. We spotted other inverts easily; there was a subtle, knowing nod we gave one another when we passed on the street. It was not difficult to observe that others were similarly uneasy about the amendment and its potential effects.

At home, in our own rooms, we were affectionate with one another, even more than before, always making sure our shades were pulled down. We had never been licentious or reckless, it not being in our natures to flaunt ourselves. There was deep passion between us still, but we lived more like a comfortable, married couple. Still, the notion that our love was something disgusting made us more committed to love one other fully.

We did not speak with Mycroft about this again. Soon after the amendment was passed, Holmes received a client asking for assistance in a blackmail case. She was a woman, a debutante who had written some letters earlier that would prove embarrassing if shown to her fiancé now, and probably put an end to their engagement. The blackmailer was a man called Charles Augustus Milverton.

Holmes hated a blackmailer more than a murderer. “The worst man in London,” he called Milverton. “The vilest murderers I have met in my career never gave me the repulsion I have for this fellow.”

I was not surprised when he took the case. Nevertheless, his anger on behalf of our client worried me, to be honest. Holmes is a very moral man, which is what drew him into criminal investigation rather than simply doing research in the sciences that underlie it. Sometimes I feared that his outrage might lead him to take the law into his own hands, were the opportunity presented. What a formidable criminal my friend might have become, I had often thought, were he not so high-minded. He has the knowledge and skill to pluck a man like Milverton from the face of the earth, and no one would be the wiser.

Indeed, when the man visited our rooms to negotiate his fee, Holmes became more livid than I have ever seen him. Had my revolver been within his reach, the meeting might have ended badly.

As it was, someone else took the matter out of our hands. A blackmailer wins no protectors, only enemies. Milverton was confronted by another victim of his extortion, shot in the chest as we looked on from our hiding place. Fortunately, we were able to flee before the police arrived. It was a narrow escape, though. Armed as we both were, that bullet might have come from one of our guns had she not surprised him.

The letters, which we recovered, were returned to our client, and the case was closed without the public ever hearing of it. I felt much relieved when our next case was a locked-room homicide.

Though Holmes often praises my looks, most would consider me a rather ordinary chap. This often turns out to be a good thing, especially in our investigations. Unlike Holmes, who cuts a striking figure wherever he goes, I tend to blend into the background. People know of me, but simply do not recognise me. My unremarkable face is quite as good as any of Holmes’ disguises.

It happened that I had taken my brother’s watch to the jeweller for cleaning one day. A young salesman tried to sell me a watch that strapped onto a man’s wrist. I was admiring it, though it was more than I could afford, considering how convenient it would have been in my days as a field surgeon to have a watch so accessible.

“Just the cleaning,” I told him, resisting the allure of the wrist-watch. “When will it be ready?”

“About an hour,” he said.

I decided that I could stroll about the neighbourhood, browsing in the shops whilst I waited. It was a fine autumn day, though brisk. The Milverton affair was over, and I’d pushed thoughts of the Labouchere Amendment to the back of my mind. An afternoon of writing, followed by an evening by the fire listening to Holmes play his violin, would be well-earned if I took some exercise now, I decided.

It was as I strolled that I overheard a conversation which brought me up short. I did not see the speakers at first, as they were walking behind me. Two men, about my age, I judged from their voices.

“They’re ripe for the plucking,” one said. “Milverton may be dead, but there are always vultures.”

At the name, my ears pricked up.

Another voice replied, “Yes, blackmail’s all the rage these days. I really can’t see sending these sods to gaol, though. To be honest, moral outrage makes me rather ill.”

“It’s all economics. Nobody believes it will put an end to sodomy, but think of the fees— barristers, private investigators, and all that. Somebody’s got to be making money off of it.”

“I imagine Sherlock Holmes is raking it in. I was told that he had something to do with Milverton’s demise.”

My heart banged against my ribs. I strained to hear the reply.

The other laughed. “I doubt it. He’s ripe for his own plucking— he and his doctor. He’ll stay as far away from that kind of criminal as he can.”

“You think Holmes is—?”A delicate pause.

“Confirmed bachelor. What do you think?”

“Really, I hadn’t thought. I suppose you’re right, though.”

I drew myself into the entry of a shop and turned to see them pass. Two gentlemen, nothing remarkable. Their words I might have dismissed six months ago. Now, they seemed a harbinger. What we feared had already begun, and we could no longer afford to trust that we were safe because we were respectable.

Once I understood that I loved Holmes and committed myself to him, I considered that vow as binding as any rite of matrimony, whether we had stood before a priest or not. He had sworn the same, and I knew he meant it. We would be faithful unto death, never forsaking one another.

Holmes had never planned to marry; he was not made for such a life and had never wanted it. I, however, had sometimes thought of marriage when I was younger, before I realised my true nature and decided I could no longer live a lie. Marriage was simply what men did once they had established themselves in life. The comfort of having someone to take care of the home, have meals on the table at the appropriate hours, and make the trivial aspects of life run smoothly— all of these things, I had once imagined for myself. Children, too, would be part of such a life, and though I knew that children were not always easy, I believed (as every would-be parent does), that my own children would be easier, cleaner, better-mannered, and more intelligent than other children. This was the life I would seek when I had returned from the army, I thought.

Lying in my bed in the army hospital in Peshawar, I finally saw the rest of my imagined life stretching before me. I recognised the vanity of that life, and knew it to be a sham. Marriage to a woman, though expected, would be dishonest. I let the dream go, without regret. At the time, I did not know what this would mean, but I knew as truly as I knew anything that a life empty of meaning would kill me. When I met Holmes, I understood what that meaning was to be.

As we sat together that evening, I calmly related the conversation I had overheard. “It’s being talked about— _we’re_ being talked about. We can’t ignore this, Sherlock.”

He drew his feet up onto the chair, hugging his knees and looking unhappy.

“We must take this seriously,” I said. “Before things turn on us.”

“No,” he said. “This will all blow over soon enough. The amendment was passed just a few months ago, and once the courts are clogged with spurious cases, it will die down.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

He shrugged.

I let it drop then, but knew this could not be the end of our discussion. I know my Sherlock, and when he takes a position on an issue, arguing only makes him more stubborn. I needed to reason with him, and he wasn’t ready to hear that.

My own panic I pushed down. He was the one who figured things out, who had a plan for every eventuality. He noticed things. He would know, I told myself, if there were anything to worry about. I trusted him for both of us. He would know, _he would know_. At night I let him wrap himself around me, pretending that he could protect us both.

The issue returned a few weeks later, when we were approached by another blackmail victim. This time, it was a man.

He was well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement in his bearing. I guessed him to be about thirty. He introduced himself as Ephraim Causey.

Holmes began as he always did with new clients. “Please tell me what brings you here today, Mr Causey, mentioning anything that may be relevant, however trivial you consider it.”

“I am an artist, Mr Holmes, making a living mostly by portraits. My flatmate, Marcus Pettigrew, teaches Latin and Greek at a private boys’ school. We have lived together for six years now. Yesterday, we received this letter.”

Holmes read the letter handed to him. I did not need to be told what it said.

“The letter is anonymous,” my partner said. “The writer asks you to respond through the newspaper if you are willing to negotiate a price. Have you replied?”

He shook his head. “I have not. I hoped you might advise me.”

Holmes sat back in his chair, his face impassive, considering our visitor. “Is there any truth to the suggestions made by the letter-writer?”

Causey sighed and looked down. “I’m afraid so, Mr Holmes. We have been careful, though, and I do not see how these charges could be taken seriously. Innocent until proven guilty is the law of our land, is it not? What evidence would be required to bring this to court, if it should come to that?”

“You would need to consult a barrister to answer that. Most of the blackmail cases I’ve handled involve some sort of document— a letter, a diary, possibly a photograph.”

The artist nodded gravely. “Marcus wants to brazen it out, force this man’s hand. He is convinced that we are safe. But he has more at stake than I do. People expect artists and musicians to be a bit bohemian, but a school teacher must have a reputation beyond reproach, especially if he works with young boys. I’m afraid he could lose his job if we come under suspicion.”

“My advice to you is this,” said Holmes. “Contact this man as he requested and say you will hear his terms. Do not tell him that you’ve contacted me. Do not agree to meet with him in person. Your conversation must be documented in ink. When you receive his reply, come and see me again, and we will discuss your next move.”

“Should I obtain legal counsel?”

“Not yet. Blackmailers are willing to wait, as long as they believe they can count on a good return on their investment.”

“Where could this man have gotten the idea that we…? I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. You must think me naive. But we have never flaunted our relationship. Only our closest friends know, and even with them, we are circumspect. This law is maddening— how can it be illegal to love someone?” His eyes glistened with tears. “We aren’t hurting anyone. It ought to be our own business.”

 _It is for this reason that blackmail is the vilest crime_ , I thought. Whether one pays or not, lives are ruined.

“Do not despair, Mr Causey,” said Holmes. “We will do all we can. For now, do as I have advised, continue your precautions, and let me know when you hear something.”

Causey nodded. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I understand why you might not want to involve yourself with our troubles, and I’m grateful for your willingness to advise me.”

Holmes frowned, glanced at me, and returned his eyes to our client. “Why do you say that?”

“I just thought…” he hesitated. “You might consider it dangerous to involve yourself with blackmailers, now that men like us are—”

“Men like us,” Holmes said.

“Thank you, Mr Causey,” I said, rising to my feet. “We will give your case every consideration.”

The artist stood and shook my hand. “Thank you, Dr Watson.” He smiled at Holmes. “I hope you will not think me forward, but one day you must sit for me. You and Dr Watson.”

We heard the front door close behind him. Holmes turned to me. “Out with it, Watson,” he said.

Since he ordinarily called me by my first name when we were alone, I knew that he was piqued by the conversation.

“You are not afraid of this case?” I began.

He regarded me steadily. “Have you ever known me to be afraid of a case?”

I hadn’t, and said as much. “And are you still convinced that this will _blow over_?”

He said nothing for a full minute, then sighed. “Tell me what you think, John.”

“Your brother may be right,” I said carefully. “We both know that he is aware of what is happening in the wake of this legislation. We should talk with him again and see if his opinion has changed. Perhaps there is less cause for alarm than he initially felt.”

“I doubt it.” He glared at the chair Causey had been sitting in. “Damn and blast. Am I to become the advocate for every Urarian who receives a threatening note?”

“Are you prepared to be that?” I knew the answer. He greatly preferred murder.

“There is no need to ask Mycroft,” he said after a while. “He makes up his mind about a thing and it takes an Act of Parliament to change it. Or an Act of God. He will have no new advice for us.”

I knew what needed to be said, but could not ask this of him. He was not like me, had never looked at a woman as anything but a member of an alien species. If one of us had to marry, it must be me.

“Then, I think… it might be best if we take measures to protect ourselves.” I drew a deep breath. “One of us must marry.”

The look that crossed his face was not anger, but agony. “No, John. I cannot— please, let us consider other options. I would sooner move to France than— not that, love.”

I knelt at his feet, laying my hands on his thighs, feeling him trembling through the fabric of his trousers. “I love you, Sherlock, and I will do everything in my power to protect you. You do not deserve— _we_ do not deserve this. And yet, it may happen. A marriage will quell these suspicions.”

“I will not marry, Watson,” he said, grimacing.

I raised my hand to his face, caressed his jaw. “Then I will, my love.”

“You? No. I will not allow it.”

“Why? My nature is not like yours. Before we met, I used to think I might marry.”

“That is precisely why I will not let you do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are drawn to women, and they to you. I see how they look at you.”

“I belong to you, my darling boy,” I said. “It would be a marriage of convenience, nothing else.”

“A woman will expect more than a roommate and a budget to run the household.” He sneered, but I could see tears gathering in his eyes. “Are you willing to do your duty to her? To produce small Watsons and fill the house with the patter of small feet?”

“I would do anything for you.”

He now began to weep in earnest. I climbed into his lap and held him.

“She will take you away from me,” he sobbed. “I cannot lose you.”

“My dearest darling,” I soothed him. “Nothing can take me away from you.”

We did not speak of it again for some time. Our client and his friend went to France, where Causey had family. He wrote once, telling us that Pettigrew was teaching English in a school there, and he had found artistic work. I felt glad for them, but angry that good men could be driven to flee on mere innuendo and suspicion.

Holmes and I kept busy. I wrote up several cases that winter, two murders and one missing person mystery, but no more blackmail cases came to Baker Street.

In the spring there were two suicides, a prominent writer and a businessman. Though the newspapers did not delve into causes, it was widely assumed that both men were inverts, and had taken their lives to avoid exposure.

These events stayed in my mind. Though I had not discussed it with Holmes, I had begun to look for a wife. If I was invited to a dinner party, I went. Often well-meaning friends had tried to pair me up with a young lady, and now I began to consider these evenings a form of research.

It went against everything in my character to look at women as potential assets, but I rationalised that to some extent, all men— and women— consider potential mates in this light. Indeed, my friend Anstruther, also a doctor, was currently seeking the hand of a young lady, the daughter of one of his patients.

“It’s damn difficult being a bachelor,” he complained to me. “Always having to manage the cook, the maid, the charwoman. A wife could keep all that in hand. But these young girls are so silly. I’ll take a spinster, even an ugly one, any day. My Helen is no beauty, but she’s as sensible as they come. All cats are grey in the dark, eh, Watson?”

Holmes said little about my evenings out. If he was jealous, he did not show it, unless it was by clinging to me more forcefully when we lay in our bed. I gave him my undivided attention at home.

After one very tedious evening, where I’d been sat between two ladies who continually giggled and flirted, I went home weary, reminding myself that this was all for Holmes, and would eventually be worth it once it was settled. He was in his chair reading when I came through the door, but looked up at me briefly before returning to his book.

He stood suddenly and came towards me with an odd look on his face. I thought he might be about to wrap his arms around me, but he merely reached into my pocket and plucked out a handkerchief. The smell of orange blossom and bergamot filled the room.

“I could smell it before you opened the door,” he said glumly. “Watson, you are an absolute bungler at this. I have no idea what your method is, but it is completely wrong.”

“Method?” I said. “What do you mean?”

“It is clear that you are wife-hunting, but for a man who once bore the nickname Three Continents, you appear to know nothing about women.”

“And you do?” I retorted, a bit stung by his reproof.

“A young wife will drive you mad. She will spend your salary on hats and frocks and _this!”_ He shook the handkerchief in my face. “She won’t understand how to run a household, and she will expect _romance._ ”

“I go to dinners,” I replied. “It’s not like sending out an order to the chemist’s with specifications, you know.”

“Dinners are tedious. Only tedious people go to them. Do not bring home a tedious wife, John.” He regarded me with some scorn, but then his mouth quirked up in a smile. “You must let me find your wife.”

“I didn’t want to put you in the position of having to choose your rival— not that she will be a rival, but at least she may see you as such. I thought it would be painful for you—”

“Who _should_ be in that position, John? Who better than I? Whatever woman you select will have to tolerate me, at the very least. You and I will continue to work together, I assume. Once she is tied down with an infant, she will pay you little mind, allowing you to run off on cases with me. And we will be as we have always been.”

I smiled. “You’ve been thinking about it.”

“I have.” He returned my smile. “I admit that it still irritates me to think of you deserting me for a wife, but I can be more demanding than any woman. If you select the right sort of woman, it won’t be a problem.”

He had set aside his feelings, I could see, and had approached is as a problem to be solved. Like most problems, it had yielded to his reasoning.

“And have you located this woman yet? I assume you’ve been looking while I’ve been dragging myself to dinner parties and listening to idle chatter.”

He smiled. “I have not found her yet, but I have no doubt that I will.”

Not long after we reached accord on this, a client approached us with a most interesting and unusual problem. She was an orphan, twenty-nine, sweet, serious and independent. She had worked as a governess for the past twelve years, since finishing school. Her father, an officer in India, had mysteriously disappeared on returning home at about that same time. She believed him dead, but wanted to know what his fate had been. She had been receiving letters from someone, including a set of valuable pearls. Furthermore, she had a treasure map. Holmes proclaimed her a model client. Her name was Mary Morstan.

We were to meet her that evening, per the instructions of her correspondent. While we waited for her to return with a four-wheeler, Holmes shared his observations with me.

“She is a spinster, or nearly,” he said. “Too old to attract the attention of a young man, not pretty enough to attract a rich one. You will do nicely, being only thirty-four and handsome. Economically, you’re not a great catch, but doctors are respectable and make enough to comfortably support a family. She has lived independently long enough that she will not be clingy or demanding of your attention. She is intelligent and organised enough to run a household. What do you say, Watson?”

Now that I was faced with an actual candidate, I felt less sure about our plan. Marriage to a man like me would be a sham. “Perhaps she will not be interested,” I said. “It hardly seems fair to her, considering what I am. It isn’t as if I love her.”

“She doesn’t care about love. Like most women of her age, she has passed that phase of life and now only wants security. If it makes you feel any better, she is hiding things from you as well— a youthful affair, for one. She is no virgin, Watson.”

The clock began to strike six, a signal that she would arrive any moment.

“In any case, it may not matter,” Holmes said. “If we discover the treasure, she will be the richest woman in England. I doubt whether marriage will interest her.” He smiled. “Even a marriage with you, John.”

Fortunately, the treasure was lost. She accepted my proposal.

The night before my wedding, I lay with my arms around Sherlock, remembering our first time. We had laughed that night, our lovemaking fast, and then slow, and we had talked for hours, until we fell asleep again. The next day, we woke to a new reality, one that felt familiar and forever.

The morning that was hastening toward us would bring another reality.

We did not sleep. We did not talk.

As the world outside our window began to brighten, warning us that it was time, I whispered, “She will not have my heart. I’m not really leaving you.”

He kissed me and whispered back, “I’m never letting you go.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Labouchere Amendment passed in 1885.
> 
> Stories referenced: The Sign of Four, The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton


End file.
